A Place Where He Belongs
by VictorianChik
Summary: A follow-up to my Unwanted Story. Lance Sweets struggles with guilt and his friendship with Booth and Brennan, but they force him to admit his mistakes and move forward towards maturity. Corporal punishment, Spoilers for Season 3
1. Chapter 1 Confrontation

I got a request from Lorelai Anastasia for a corporal punishment story with Bones. So blame her if you hate this. It's a continuation off my Unwanted story, but will have several parts. Hope you all enjoy and if you don't, do not blame me because it wasn't my idea.

I have watched the show, but I may get a few facts wrong. It's hard because the third season hasn't come out on DVD yet so I'm watching what I can on youtube. But this story takes place at the end of the third season so there are spoilers.

Disclaimer: I do not own.

--

As he turned the TV off, Lance Sweets knew what his problem was. He had probably had known all along, but watching _Batman Begins_ confirmed it. The Scarecrow had been a little . . . too familiar to Lance. Yes, both he and Jonathan Crane were doctors, psychiatrists, young for their professions, innovative and intelligent. But also . . .

Lance squirmed on the sofa, trying not to think about what he had just seen. That look on Crane's face when he sprayed the toxin and watched his victim go crazy. That wide-eyed, eager expression as he watched the mind go wild, savor each expression of horror that flickered over the victim's face.

Lance had never sprayed fear toxin on a patient or anything grotesque like that, but he understood the desire to watch a patient, to understand the limits of the psyche, the dark places that the mind could go to.

Shakily, Lance stood and headed towards the kitchen. He went and opened the fridge, wanting something to distract himself from his scary thoughts. Late at night, in the darkness of his room, he often wondered how far he was willing to go, how far would he push patients just so he could learn more about the human brain.

"Stupid," he muttered as he stared into the fridge, feeling the coolness on his face. "Completely stupid."

A moment later, he realized that his shelves were nearly empty. Every since his girlfriend had left him, the fridge always seemed empty. He went to the store when he remembered to, but he was always hungry these days. He found himself eating at the office, sometimes even bring a fast food breakfast to work and eating there just so he wouldn't have to fix breakfast alone.

And the dinner with Brennan and Booth had been a welcomed diversion. He had spent the first half of it miserable, but then they told him they were teasing and he had spent the rest of the evening eating and joking with them. But they had made their point to him all the same – they expected him to treat them like people when they went out, not patients.

He grabbed a bottle of water off the top shelf and closed the door. He would have liked to have a beer, but he was out again, mainly because buying beer was such a pain. Whenever he bought it, he had his driver's license ready at the checkout, but the cashiers never believed he was twenty-two. Then a manager had to be called over, and the line was held up, and customers behind him grumbled and tapped their feet and edged closer and closer until Lance wanted to run out of the store. He always got his beer, but it was never really worth it.

He went back to the living room and flopped down on the couch, sighing heavily as he opened his water.

Everything had been fine after that dinner, and they had even asked him out the next Friday. Well, to be honest, he had asked them, but they agreed, and they spent a nice time at a friendly pub. Then Booth had been shot and faked his death, and Lance had . . . well, he had meant to tell Brennan that he wasn't dead.

But somewhere along the way, things had gotten complicated. At the time, Lance had rationalized that he wanted to make sure the whole sting operation went off well, and that Brennan wasn't a good actor and would have given the whole thing away if she had known Booth was alive. He tried so hard to make himself believe that was the truth, but the whole time he had known exactly what he wanted.

That moment when Brennan saw Booth and realized he was alive, he wanted to see her face. Would she be relieved? Overjoyed? Angry? Enraged? He had barely contained his excitement through the whole funeral, and as soon as Booth appeared and Brennan slapped him, Lance knew he had been right about the two of them the whole time. They were more than work partners – they were more than friends.

And he felt like a complete jackass.

He wanted them to spend time with him, he wanted them to like him – okay, he wanted them to be his friends, even though that sounded so middle school. And he had betrayed them because he was too eager to watch them like test subjects.

Lance grabbed the remote and turned the TV back on. He could drown himself in late night TV, an endless run of TV sitcoms where life was full of laughs and all problems got solved in thirty minutes including commercials.

--

"And so I confronted him," Brennan said emphatically. "I went to his apartment and told him how I felt. We had a nice conversation, in spite of him complaining about being naked."

Lance lifted his eyes from the blank notepad perched on his knee. "You two were naked?"

"Well, he was," Brennan gestured to Booth.

"I was in the tub at the time," Booth explained. "Trying to relax, and she barged right in."

"He had nothing to fear – I've seen a grown man naked before, and Booth stands up very well in comparison."

"He does not need to hear that!" Booth exploded, looking both shocked and exasperated at the same time. "My . . . _size_ has nothing to do with this session."

"I was not discussing your _size_," Brennan protested. "I could have been talking about your stomach or your thighs."

"My stomach or my thighs?" Booth was horrified.

"Some men have very large stomachs or pasty thighs," Brennan explained. "But you don't," she placed a reassuring hand on Booth's knee.

He scoffed though he did not push her hand away. "I'm sure Sweets is just eating all this up. Aren't you, Sweets?"

Lance had been staring at his blank notepad, his eyes slightly glazed over. He was tired, and he wished he could get them to leave his office so he could stretch out on his sofa and take a nap. He had stayed up past two and then fallen asleep on his own couch only to wake up at seven and rush to get ready for work. He needed more sleep.

"Sweet?" Booth repeated, slightly raising his voice. "What, are we boring you?"

"Booth," Brennan admonished, "don't yell at him."

"Well, he makes us come in and talk about our 'feelings'," Booth made quotation marks in the air. "The least he could do is pretend to listen."

"I'm listening," Lance tried to straighten. "I am. I'm just tired."

"Are you getting sick?" Brennan leaned forward, concerned.

"No, I stayed up too late," Lance admitted, rubbing his eyes.

"What? You need someone to tell you when to go to bed?" Booth challenged. "Need Mommy to tuck you in with a kiss and turn the nightlight on?"

"Why do you do that?" Brennan turned to Booth.

"Do what?"

"Turn everything about him into a patronizing degradation. He could have been working on something really important last night, something for the FBI, and you want to make him feel like a little kid. You were working on something important, weren't you, Sweets?"

"No, I was watching TV," Lance sighed.

"See," Booth was triumphant. "Watching TV on a school night – what do you expect?"

"I can watch TV at night," Lance said defensively. "I work really hard here and I'm writing papers and I'm helping people."

"Ha," Booth snorted. At a look from Brennan, he amended, "I'm sure you're doing all you can. But if you're not paying attention to us, we're not talking."

Crossing his arms, Booth sat back with a so-there look. Brennan pressed her lips together, but she said nothing.

Lance thought about saying "Patients are hostile and uncooperative" as he wrote it on his notepad, but he didn't. The silence dragged for a few minutes, and then Lance slowly asked,

"Do you think I'm manipulative?"

"Of course," Booth answered before Brennan could say anything. When she looked at him, surprised, he went on, "Well, he is. Everything he does is to make us figure out who we are inside and who we want to be and all that crap. He has to be manipulative."

"He's talking about what just happened," Brennan pointed out. "Not telling me that you were alive. Letting me think you died."

"Oh," Booth let his arms loosen the smallest bit. "Okay."

"He was manipulative then," Brennan said bluntly.

Booth said nothing, and Lance felt his cheeks grow warm. "I'm sorry," he offered.

"Well, that's not enough," Brennan told him. "I've been trying to forget it, and not think about how awful I felt. Those days – thinking I would never see him again, that I had lost a very dear friend –" she broke off, her eyes glassing with tears. Her lips were angry, pressed together in a tight line, but her gaze was full of hurt.

Lance suddenly couldn't stand to be in same room with them anymore. He stood abruptly. "The session's over," he mumbled as he rushed for the door.

Out of the office, down the hall, he ran into the bathroom, rushed into an end stall, and locked the stall door. He leaned back against the wall and slid down until he crouched down, holding onto his knees. He couldn't understand it or even explain what he was feeling, but his insides were twisting horribly.

Why couldn't he just explain how he felt? Why couldn't he just apologize? How hard would it be? _"I'm sorry, guys, I was a jerk and an idiot and I should have figured out a better way. Please, please forgive me, and I promise I'll never do something so awful again."_ But he couldn't just make himself say it. Because if he did, they might laugh at him . . . or even worse, refuse to forgive him.

He hid in the stall for an hour, and when he ventured back into his office, they were gone. Part of him felt overwhelmingly relieved, and part of him felt frustrated beyond words.

For the rest of the day, he was a mess. He lost papers only to find them later in the trashcan, mixed up his patients, worked on a research paper for an hour only to delete it without saving it, and then broke the keyboard when he slammed on it in anger.

Five o'clock could not come quick enough, and the moment it did, Lance was rushing for the door. It was Friday, and he planned to bury himself in his apartment with three more superhero movies, video games, and a case of beer.

He stopped at the convenience store a few blocks from his office, squeezed into a parking space (DC traffic was always crazy), and headed inside. He stood in front of the cases of beer for several minutes, trying to figure out what kind he wanted. It really made no difference, and eventually he grabbed the cheapest case. No one was in line at the register when he brought up the case, and the guy behind the glass demanded, "ID."

Reaching into his pocket, Lance took out his wallet and pulled out his license and put it in the little tray that reached under the glass. The guy snatched it up and looked at the picture skeptically.

"Doesn't look like you," the guy stated.

"It's me – Lance Sweets," Lance insisted. "I'm twenty-two."

"Looks like a fake," the guy shook his head. "Got any other ID?"

"Fine," Lance grabbed his wallet again. "I got credit cards, FBI ID card, library card," he began laying each of the cards on the counter, "debit card, Starbucks card, Smoothie King – if I buy two more smoothies, I get one free."

"Problems?" someone asked from behind him.

Lance turned, and his heart sank a little further. Hodgins and Angela were behind him. She was holding a bottle of wine, and he had his arm around her shoulders as he smiled at Lance.

Lance straightened. "No problem. Guy here is just doing his job – not giving alcohol to minors, which I'm not one of."

The guy behind the counter was already ringing up the beer, frowning at Lance. "That will be 6.45."

Lance grabbed the cards off the counter, but offered one of them to the man.

"Credit card machine's down," the guy told him. "Cash only."

Lance opened his wallet, but only found a single dollar bill inside. Flustered, he glanced around. "Can I use the ATM?" he motioned to the machine at the side.

"It's broken, too," the guy told him.

Angela tugged on Hodgins' arm. "Come on, help him out – don't you have cash?"

"Sure," Hodgins reached into his wallet and took out a twenty.

The guy took it and rang up the order and gave back the change in the little tray. "Next?"

"Thanks," Lance mumbled, not able to look them in the eye. "I'll pay you back."

"Forget it," Hodgins took the wine from Angela and put it on the counter.

"Cash or charge?" the guy asked, typing in the order.

Lance turned back, furious. "But you just said it was broken –"

"You have your beer – now get out before I call the police and have them arrest you for loitering," the guy snapped.

Lance stumbled out of the store, determined to grow a beard to show just how old he was. How embarrassing to have met Angela and Hodgins there and then they had to pay for his beer. Lance got in his car and sped away, feeling like he was fleeing a crime scene.

His apartment was dark and cold, and he flipped the lights on before going to turn up the heat. He though about changing into more comfortable clothes, but he just plopped down on the couch, ready to lose himself in a world of TV and alcohol.

He sipped the beer slowly as he watched reruns of sitcoms, recalling the jokes he had heard before, moments before the characters said them. How nice it would be to live in apartment with your friends stopping by every evening, and sometimes in the mornings or hanging out with you at a coffee shop?

He had finished one beer and three sitcoms when a knock sounded on the door.

Surprised, Lance got up and opened it.

Booth and Brennan stood on the doorstep.

"Hey, guys," Lance managed an awkward smile, "I – what are you doing here?"

"Can we come in?" Booth ignored the question.

"Yeah, sure," Lance stepped back, "sorry, it's kind of a mess."

He meant the video games on the floor and the beers on the coffee table, but they didn't seem to notice.

Lance shut and locked the door before turning to them. "What's up?"

"We've talked a long time and we've reached a decision," Brennan announced crisply.

"Oh?" Lance swallowed. They were going to ask to be transferred to another therapist – they never wanted to see him again. It would be okay – he just had to keep from crying until they left.

"What you did to her was unacceptable," Booth announced abruptly. "And since you acted immaturely and childishly and in a way unfitting a FBI psychiatrist, we're here to straighten you out."


	2. Chapter 2 Consequences

AN: Finally got a second chapter of this story up. It's been far too long since I've been writing, but I started a new exercise program that keeps me exhausted week long. But I've finally adjusted and will be trying to write everyday and post much more frequently.

Warning: Corporal punishment on an adult in this chapter.

Disclaimer: I do not own.

--

Lance glanced from Booth back to Brennan and then to Booth again. "You've – you've come to hang out with me? Okay, but you could have called. I mean, I'm glad you're here, but I know it's a drive and I could have –"

"We didn't come to hang out with you," Booth said bluntly.

Lance tried not to wince or give any sign that the words hurt him.

"I think we better explain first," Brennan said. "Let's sit down. Sit somewhere comfortable, Sweets."

After being told that, Lance took the small chair beside the couch, the most uncomfortable chair in the apartment. Brennan sat down on the couch and Booth sat besides her, both of them looking uncomfortable as well.

Booth noticed the bottle on the table. "Been kicking back, huh?"

"It's one beer," Lance objected. "I'm over twenty-one, and it's Friday night. Besides this is my place, and –"

"No need to get defensive," Booth shot back at him. "I was just making conversation."

Lance fell silent, feeling very immature and stupid. He never knew the right thing to say around the two of them – they were so solid and together, a team that worked well, playing on each other's strengths.

"I've been reading," Brennan said in her abrupt way, grabbing both men's attention. "And I was telling Booth about it this afternoon after you ran out."

Lance looked back down at his hands and wondered if he should apologize for leaving that way.

"There are several theories behind guilt, what causes it, how it manifests, and how it ends," Brennan went on. "In your case, you caused me pain and now you feel bad about that. Booth was involved as well, so he becomes a part of the guilt as well. Now, some guilt results immediately after the action, meaning most people feel bad right away. But you have experienced the delayed reaction. You feel bad and even though you might apologize, you still feel bad."

"I did apologize," Lance protested. "I am sorry, I'm really sorry, and I wish I could do something to make it up to you."

"Now this is the interesting part," Brennan leaned forward, her eyes intense. "If I said I accept your apology and if Booth did the same, would it help you at all? Would you feel any better and, more importantly, would you ever do that same thing again? Guilt exists as a human reaction developed in society to prevent the guilty party from committing the same action again."

"Booth isn't going to fake his death again," Lance protested. "And I know all about guilt – it's textbook."

"Well, we're here to do something a little less orthodox," Booth retorted. He seemed agitated, tugging at the collar of his tie and shifting every minute or so in impatience.

"I've been reading about a case they conducting in Sweden," Brennan went on evenly, "in which volunteers worked closely with doctors over a year to help with guilt. Some of the volunteers had past experiences that troubled them and some were dealing with day-to-day guilt over not doing what they were supposed to do, such as studying for class, getting enough rest, taking care of themselves. After doctors established a trusty relationship with the patients, they began delivering consequences to help dissolve the guilt."

"What did they do?" Lance asked nervously.

"They spanked them," Brennan replied quietly.

"No!" Lance jerked in his seat, barely able to stay seated. "Uh-huh, no, they didn't."

"They did," Brennan said simply.

Lance did not ever pretend to not know why she had brought the case up. He might be socially awkward, but Lance Sweets was no dummy. "You can't be thinking that you're going to do that to me," he said bluntly.

"Corporal punishment has existed for centuries," Brennan pointed out. "It's only modern man that believes it is harsh and inhumane."

"Yeah, and I'm one of them," Lance said in high-pitched voice. "I-I even wrote a paper in grad school against the use of it in child-rearing. I got it published, and everyone agreed with me."

"Yeah, well, that's really too bad," Booth spoke up. "Guess you're going to have to write a retraction."

"And as far as child-rearing goes," Breanna put in, "physiatrists are still divided about whether corporal punishment helps or hurts children. Studies have been inconclusive because –"

"Forget studies," Booth interrupted. "Here's deal, Sweets. I have no idea how Brennan talked me into this, but I agree that you need to be brought a few pegs. And if that mean me taking a couple swings at you, I'm all for it."

"Booth," Brennan admonished.

Booth ignored her. "You've been a pain since the first day we met you. We've talked about our feelings and our relationship and done all your bogus exercises, and now it's our turn to tell you how it's going to be. You're going to go along with this or you can choose not to."

"Not!" Lance declared.

"If you choose to go along, you're going to bend over the arm of this couch and I'm going to take this," Booth reached into his coat pocket and removed a wide wooden-back hairbrush, "and I'm going to swat at you. You choose not to, and Brennan and I are leaving for good. We won't see you again, and we'll request to be transferred to another therapist. You can't call us or talk to us, and we'll ignore you if you ever come to the Lab."

"That's not fair," Lance protested weakly. "It's not even a choice. I have to agree to this or I never see you again."

"You let her think I was dead," Booth said solemnly. "What do you think you deserve?"

Lance though he was going to be sick. His palms were sweaty, his ears rang, and he wished he would wake up and find all of this was a dream.

Booth waited, tapping the hairbrush lightly against his hand. Brennan watched Lance carefully, her eyes not wavering.

"I-I can't," Lance finally croaked.

Disappointment flashed over Booth's face, but he nodded as he started to stand. "I see. Well, this is the end, Swee-"

"No!" Lance objected. "I mean I'm scared. I can't move. I'll do it, but I can't move! Please!"

Brennan looked at Booth, and he nodded shortly. Brennan stood up and walked over to Lance. "It's okay," she told him quietly. "You're going to be fine. Just take my hand."

Lance stared at her out-stretched hand and he felt absolutely petrified. How in the hell could he do this? A spanking wouldn't be that bad (he remembered his mom spanking him once for wandering out of the yard), but the fact that it was Booth and Brennan. Lance thought he could have taken anyone else except them. He worked with them, he liked them, he wanted them to be his friends, and now they wanted to –

Before he knew what he was doing, Lance had raised one of his hands and wrapped his fingers around her slim hand. Her hand felt cool and smooth, and he knew his own hand was hot and shaking, but he stood up on trembling legs.

"It's okay," she told him gently as she held the back of his elbow with her free hand. "Don't worry."

Like a terrified child, Lance let her lead him towards the couch. His eyes were smarting, and he wished he had lots of friends so he could yell at them to get out because he didn't need any other friends.

He whimpered when he saw the right arm of the couch and Brennan stopped him right in front of it.

"Bend over, she said softly.

"Wait," Booth directed. "Pants down first."

"Booth," Brennan objected, but he shook his head.

"Those are work pants," Booth pointed out. "I don't want to ruin them."

_How hard are you going to hit me?_ Lance wanted to scream. He said nothing, however, and started fumbling with his belt. He could not get the clasp loose, and he took long, dizzy breaths as he tried to steady himself.

"I can't," he whispered as he struggled with the belt. "I just can't."

Booth let his breath out impatiently, but Brennan stepped forward and reached towards Lance's waistline. Lance almost stepped back, but he forced himself to stand still as Brennan pulled his belt out of the buckle and pulled the metal button free of the buttonhole. She would have pulled his zipper down, but he gasped,

"I can do it. Please."

When she drew back, he yanked the zipper down and shoved his pants down to his knees with trembling, sweaty hands. Thankfully, he was wearing boxers rather than briefs, but unfortunately, his boxers were a pale blue with yellow smiley faces.

"I have to – to –" Lance motioned to the couch arm nervously. He was having trouble breathing, and he hoped he wouldn't faint right in the middle of his living room.

"Yeah, bend over the arm," Booth instructed. "Put your elbows and hands down on the seat cushion."

Lance leaned over shakily, feeling the rounded arm of the couch press into his low abdomen. He was sweaty and agitated, scared half to death about what was about to befall him.

The silence was unnerving, torturing his nerves to no end, and he finally gasped, "So are you going to just start or am I supposed to say –"

Wham! The hairbrush hit his backside so hard Lance could barely register the swat.

"No," he moaned as he straightened, "no, I can't."

"Back down," Booth instructed him.

"I can't," Lance complained. "It hurts too much."

"Back down or out we go," Booth said in a quiet, but firm voice.

"Oh, oh," Lance glanced back and forth between them, hoping for some kind of relief, but neither Booth nor Brennan budged an inch. "Oh, no," Lance moaned as he bent ever so slowly over the arm, finally letting his stomach rest on the curve and digging his fingers into the cushions.

He heard Booth moving back into position, and he begged, "Wait, wait, wait! Just – just a sec. How many? How many do I get?"

Brennan glanced at Booth. "Forty?" she suggested.

"Fifty," Booth insisted.

"Fifty! Fifty? Come on, man," Lance whimpered. "I mean, there's payback and then there's torture."

"Fine, forty," Bones snapped at him. "But you take it like a man."

"Evil," Lance let his head hang down limply. "Completely cruel – Ow, OW!"

Bones delivered two more wallops, frowning at the kid's whining. "Pull yourself together, Sweets. You got thirty-eight more coming."

"You already gave me three," Lance moaned.

"First one was a warm-up," Booth said, far too cheerful in Lance's opinion. "You want to count? Bones, should he count?"

"I'll count," Brennan offered. "That was two. Go on, Booth."

Lance squeezed his eyes shut and held onto the couch for dear life, bracing himself for the swats. For each one, Lance jerked forward and grunted, barely able to hear Brennan's calm counting. He fought against his rising panic and kept pushing back tears, huffing and then breathing as quietly as he could, anything to try to distract himself from the agony the hairbrush was inflicting.

But after twenty swats, Lance lost the battle with his pride and begged, "Wait, stop. Just – please, only a second. You gotta give a guy a second."

"Fifteen seconds," Booth agreed.

Lance did not move from the couch arm, but he wiped his sweaty face and stinging eyes. He could not believe the fire that blazed against his backside; how could a simple padding hurt so much? He stood by every word of that paper that claimed corporal punishment was a brutal, sadistic, inhumane –

Whack!

The hairbrush slammed into him again, and Lance let out a howl before letting his body go limp.

"No fair, no fair," he whimpered as the spanking started again, Brennan counting, "Twenty-one."

The higher she counted, the more distraught Lance got. By the time number thirty-five came, he was gasping for air, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Brennan looked at Booth concerned, mouthing the words "Hurry up and finish."

Booth nodded and then laid down five swats – whack, whack, whack, whack, whack – on Lance's rear.

"Noooo!" Lance wailed. "No, I can't take it."

"It's over now," Booth said, but Lance was lost his own world of pain.

"Oh, oh," after yanking up his pants, Lance crawled around couch and dropped onto it. He gave another howl when his rear hit the couch but his legs were not strong enough to hold him up, and he collapsed on his side. Curling up on the couch in the fetal position, he broke into heart-wrenching sobs.

Booth looked at Brennan alarmed, holding out his hands in question.

"Help him," Brennan whispered.

"How? He's a mess," Booth motioned down to the sobbing Lance.

"You have to help him," Brennan argued. "You took him apart – time to put him back together."

"This whole thing was your idea," Booth retorted, tossing the hairbrush on the coffee table. At the sight of the brush, the volume of Lance's cries increased.

"You are the alpha male," Brennan insisted. "You have to –"

"Agh!" Booth made a frustrated noise. "Everything always comes down to me being the alpha male. One day, you're going to get the alpha male and I'll be the – the –"

"The girl?" Brennan supplied.

Booth glared at her, but she gestured to Lance.

"What are we going to do?"

"Let's leave," Booth whispered. "We tiptoe out, and he cries himself to sleep. We'll see him Monday."

"Booth," she tilted her head to the side in disapproval.

"Now you have to have feelings?" Booth growled. "You choose the worst times to be human. Sweets, suck it up!"

Lance reached for a couch cushion and hugged it to his chest, still crying.

"Come on, be a man," Booth urged. "You got to . . . be a man," he trailed off as he looked down at the kid. "Dude, this is pathetic."

"Oh, yeah?" Lance sniffed, swiping at tears. "Next time someone turns your ass into ground beef, you be a man."

"I tried," Booth stepped back from the couch, but Brennan put her hand on the back of his arm.

"Talk to him. You may have to engage in physical contact with him."

"What?" Booth looked back at her, shocked.

"A hug, Booth," Brennan explained. "Recipients of corporal punishment often desire some sort of contact afterwards."

"You hug him then."

"Contact with punisher," Brennan elucidated.

"I'm the Punisher now," Booth gave a half-grin. "Cool, he was a badass. Jeez, Sweets, you have to stop crying."

"Go away," Lance moaned, clutching his pillow. "Just go. I want to be alone."

"You heard him," Booth began, but at Brennan's look, he sighed and ran his fingers through his short hair. "Okay, okay, I'll do it."

He stepped right up to the couch and barked out, "That's enough, Sweets. You got what you deserved. Go ahead and sit up."

Lance shook his head stubbornly.

"Sit up or you'll get even more," Booth threatened.

Lance looked up at him in agony. "Gonna sue you," Lance choked out, but he gingerly sat up. "I'm gonna – gonna make you pay."

"Yeah, that's just the pain talking. Okay, kid, lean back against the couch. What do you want now? Something to eat? Drink?"

Lance leaned back, lifting his face with flushed cheeks, teary eyes, and trembling lips. "Thirsty," he whispered.

"I'll get you some water," Brennan headed for the tiny kitchen.

"I have beer here," Lance nodded to the bottles that seemed so pointless now.

"Alcohol only dehydrates you," Brennan came back with a glass of ice water.

Lance took several gulps of the water and then put it down on the coffee table. Then he sat awkwardly, uncomfortable and miserable, with tears sliding down his cheeks. Booth sighed and looked up at Brennan for help.

She took a seat in the uncomfortable chair beside the couch. "Sweets, we only did this to help you. Do you feel better now? Less guilty?"

"No, I don't feel anything but – but –" Lance refused to say the word _sad_.

"Okay, we tried something and it didn't work," Brennan admitted. "I admit it was unorthodox, but the article was so convincing . . ."

Lance said nothing as he tried to access his feelings. His rear was still burning and he felt twisted and raw inside, but he could breathe a littler easier now without the sickening feeling deep in his stomach.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Lance jerked his gaze to see Booth reaching over, keeping his hand on Lance's shoulder. "You're going to be okay, kid. We forgive you, right, Bones?"

"Yes, we do," Breanna leaned forward. "You are forgiven now."

"Really?" Lance blinked, his wet eyelashes clumping together.

"Yeah, of course we forgive you," Booth sounded a little too eager, but Lance believed him. Booth gave his shoulder a warm squeeze and Lance relaxed against the couch.

Silence filled the room, broken only by the last of Lance's sniffles. Finally, Bones said, "Okay, so what were you planning tonight, kid?"

"Just hang out and watch a few movies, maybe."

"Well, that sounds fun," Brennan's voice was a tad too high, but she got up and went to sit on Sweet's other side. "Why don't we watch a movie tonight, the three of us?"

"Tonight?" Booth objected. "But I was going to –"

"You don't have plans," Brennan interrupted. "What movies to you have, Sweets?"

"I have Lord of the Rings, the last one," he glanced at her.

"Oh, great, we'll spend all evening with the elves and horbits of Middle Turf," Booth grumbled.

"It's hobbits of Middle Earth," Lance protested.

"Sounds fun," Brennan smiled. "I'm sure you know all about it."

Booth got the movie started while Breanna asked questions about the first two movies and Lance gave her a long description of the action thus far. The more her talked, the last traces of his tears and anguish disappearing. He relaxed more and more, comfortable on the couch between the two of them.

The movie started and Booth got a beer, promising to buy Lance another pack though Lance said not to worry about it. Booth took a few swigs, but once the movie got underway, Booth became completely engrossed in the film. As both Brennan and Lance noticed, Booth seemed to connect with Aragorn the most, watching avidly when the returning king was on screen and nodding along fervently with whatever Aragorn said.

They were just in the middle of the last great battle of Middle Earth when Booth glanced at Brennan to comment on the fighting skills and saw that Lance had fallen asleep. Slumped against the couch, Lance's eyes were shut, his mouth slightly open.

"Good, he's asleep," Booth whispered. "Let's finish the movie and get the heck out of here."

"No," Brennan hissed. "Someone needs to stay here with him."

"Why?"

"Because he shouldn't wake up alone in the middle of the night."

"Then you stay," Booth said, but without conviction.

"You know it's not appropriate for me to stay here," Brennan replied. "You're the alpha –"

"You say alpha male one more time and I'll go Middle Earth on you," he growled.

"You're a guy – you stay."

Booth stewed for a few seconds and then reluctantly agreed, adding, "But he sleeps in his bed and I sleep on the couch."

He paused the movie, freezing the face of a snarling orc on the screen.

"Okay, let's get him up. Sweets," she gently shook his shoulder, "Sweets."

"No," Lance moaned without opening his eyes, "don't leave. Stay."

"One of us is going to stay," Brennan soothed. "But it's almost midnight. Why don't you go get in your own bed?"

"Wanna stay here," Lance mumbled.

"Come on, Sweets," Booth stood up and grabbed the younger man's arm.

Lance lurched to his feet, clumsily knocking his shoes against the coffee table. He held onto Booth to balance for a second and then stumbled into his bedroom.

Booth and Brennan followed to see Lance collapse facedown on his bed and fall right back asleep. With a side look and a smile at her partner, Breanna gave into her maternal instincts and covered Lance up with a blanket, trying not to laugh at the Star Wars print all over the blanket.

They walked quietly out, and Brennan reached out to squeeze Booth's arm. "I'm going home," she whispered. "I'll be back tomorrow morning with breakfast."

"Oh, fine," Booth sighed. "Get some rest. Me? I'm going to watch the rest of this movie."

He hopped back on the couch and started the movie again, turning down the volume a little.

"Good night, Booth," Brennan walked out the door and shut it quietly behind her.

"Night," Booth settled down in the couch, propped his feet up on the coffee table, and reached for another beer.

On the TV, Eowyn swung her long sword and cut off the Nazgul's head.

"You go, girl," Booth said, taking a long sip and letting his breath out.


	3. Chapter 3 Companionship

Thanks to Supergirl for betaing. Love my betas!

-----

Lance nervously shifted his clipboard from one hand to the other and back again. He had four minutes before his next session – Booth and Brennan. And with every second that passed, Lance felt more like being sick.

It had been five days since that unfortunate incident at his apartment. The morning after his – um, run-in with the hairbrush in Booth's hand, Lance had awakened to find himself slightly sore but fully rested. He had crept out of his bedroom to find Booth asleep on the sofa.

The next hour had proved very awkward as Booth woke up and insisted they go get some breakfast. Lance had tried to resist, but Booth made him go along and practically forced breakfast down the younger man's throat. Once they had eaten, Booth left, only after offering the chance for Lance to come out with him to park with his son from which Lance promptly excused himself by saying he had other work to do.

In the four days that followed, Lance had avoided both of them. They had tried to call several times and Brennan had even come up to his office yesterday and knocked on the door. Lance had hidden behind his desk. However, he had also been with a patient at the time, and the patient got alarmed at her doctor's erratic behavior.

"Is everything all right?" the patient had whispered when Lance finally stood back up.

"Yes, yes," he assured her. "I'm hiding from my – uh, codependent narcissist who comes back every few hours, wanting to talk to me more."

The patient hadn't really bought it, and Lance doubted he would ever earn her full respect back after she watched the brilliant Dr. Sweets cower behind his desk and furiously gesture for her to stay quiet.

But that had been yesterday, and today Booth and Brennan had their weekly session. Lance had racked his brain to come up with a way to not see them. He'd considered playing sick, but then he'd have to cancel his other appointments and go home and they could find him at home. He thought about asking another doctor to take them, but that would lead to awkward questions. And there was no way in hell that Lance was going to admit to his colleague that one of his patients had paddled him with a hairbrush while another patient watched and encouraged the whole horrible thing.

He could simply not go to the session – he could hide somewhere in DC, but his absence would be reported and then even worse questions.

So he would face them in – oh, jeez, two minutes.

The next hundred-twenty seconds were agony as Lance watched the second hand tick around the clock, getting closer and closer to his doom. How could he face them after what had happened? How could he act like their therapist, when he had gotten spanked like a child?

Two o'clock and they weren't there. Lance gasped in some air. They weren't coming – they had skipped out on him. Or maybe they were out working a case. Or they had forgotten and he would never have to see them again.

He heard the footsteps down the hall – Booth's determined tread and Brennan's hurried pace to keep up with him. In the twenty-two seconds it took them to reach his office, Lance lost his head about five times. He considered ducking behind his desk or making a run for it. He would have jumped out the window, but they were on the fourth floor and he doubted he could survive the leap without any broken bones.

He ended up freezing right where he was, round eyes staring at the door.

Booth opened the door, but allowed Brennan to go in first. She smiled at him as she entered the room.

"Hey, Sweets," Booth nodded. "Sorry we're a little late. I couldn't drag someone away from the bodies."

"It's my job," Brennan protested as she sat down, but she smiled at Booth, clearly in a teasing mood like he was.

Lance knew he was supposed to sit in his seat and get them started but he stood like stone, watching them.

Booth reached forward, and Lance jumped backwards.

"Whoa!" Booth put his hands up. "I was just going to adjust the coffee table. You okay there?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Lance took his seat, tense and ready for any sudden movements.

"What's wrong?" Brennan asked.

"Yeah, besides avoiding our phone calls," Booth added.

"What? No! No," Lance shook his head, "I'm not avoiding anyone. I was busy. I'm always busy."

"Calm down," Booth tried to smile at him in a friendly fashion, but Lance kept shaking his head.

"It's all right," Brennan suddenly said. "This is a safe place here. No one is going to hurt you, and Booth isn't going to punish you again."

"It's not about that," Lance said in a high voice, hating himself for showing his fear. "It's just I'm supposed to be the – the – I'm telling!"

"Telling who?" Booth asked skeptically.

"Telling whom," Brennan corrected.

"Na-uh," Booth disagreed. "It's who – who is he telling?"

"It's only who when it's a subject. Anything else is whom. He was using it as a direct object. He said 'I'm telling' and you wanted to know the person he was telling, so it's whom."

"I've heard who used in the middle of sentences," Booth refused to let it go. "'I like Angela, who is good at her job.' You wouldn't use whom there."

"It's a subject there because it's two sentences," Brennan explained. "I like Angela, and she is good at her job. Still a subject."

"Sweets?" Booth looked at him for backup. "Who or whom?"

"I don't give a damn about that!" Lance exploded.

Brennan blinked, and Booth frowned.

"Hey, no reason to get so touchy just because I didn't get my doctorate," Booth said. "I have good grammar, and I know the difference between I and me."

"No, you don't," Brennan told him. "You say 'Come ride along with Brennan and I' all the time. It should be 'Brennan and me.' I is only used as the subject."

"I hate the English language," Booth scowled. "All these rules and tenses and verbs."

"It's language," Brennan frowned. "You are an evolved species that should be able to master a complex language. Just buy a grammar handbook and look up the rules that confuse you."

"I'm not looking up grammar rules. That's for fifth graders."

"Are we seriously going to argue about grammar?" Brennan demanded. "We're supposed to get counseling about important things."

"Ha," Booth smirked. "Told you grammar isn't important."

"Sweets," Brennan looked at him, "don't you think Booth's passive-aggressive stance is an evasive tactic to hide his own insecurities?"

"I'm not insecure! I might not have all your education, but I'm smart and I'm good at my job. And Sweets respects me, don't you?"

"Oh, God, yes," Lance said in a rush.

"He's always concerned about people respecting him," Brennan objected. "Why can't you see that that itself is a cover-up for insecurity? There's nothing wrong with being insecure."

"You're insecure! People who go around telling other people they're insecure are the ones who are really insecure."

"You think I'm projecting?"

"There you go with the doctor terminology again. Sweets, I want to make a formal complaint against this woman."

"Why?" Brennan's brow creased. "Because you don't know words? Buy a dictionary."

"I have to side with Dr. Brennan on this," Lance began in a shaky voice. "You can't make a formal complaint because –"

Booth jumped to his feet, and Lance grabbed the clipboard to hold up as protection.

"No," he protested, "no, don't spank me. I'm on your side."

"Spank you?' Booth looked stunned. "I wasn't going to – I was just going to get the dictionary on the shelf over there."

"Booth, he's terrified," Brennan realized. "He's thinks we're going to use corporal punishment on him again. I guess the side affects are worth studying – you were too harsh on him."

"Me?" Booth whirled to face her. "This whole punishment thing was your idea. I thought you were crazy, but you insisted. Now he's all jumpy and worried and avoiding us."

"Well, it was just the first time," Brennan frowned slightly. "Most studies on corporal punishment say it's only affective on children when used in a consistent method with the parents showing full love and support towards the child before and after."

"So I have to paddle him again to show him I still care?" Booth looked incredulous.

"You're not touching me!" Lance sounded near hysterics.

"Well, it's different here," Brennan started to look stressed. "We're mixing two different studies – one for adults suffering from guilt and one for children with parents. And most of it was hypothesis."

Booth put his hands on his hips, managing to glare at both of them at the same time. "What do I do to fix this?"

"That's your problem," Brennan stood up so she could look him in the eye. "You want to fix everything. Fix this, fix that, fix me, fix Sweets, fix the whole FBI. Some problems can't be fixed."

"If you truly believed that, you wouldn't be in here with me," Booth retorted.

She blinked, caught off guard at his logic. Booth looked smugger than ever.

"Score for the dumb FBI agent," he chortled. "Sweets, straighten up."

"Sweets, you stay however you like," Brennan said, facing off Booth. "He doesn't have to change for you."

"Oh, yes, he does," Booth reached down and grabbed Lance by the collar.

Lance gave a half cry as Booth pulled him to his feet.

"Apologize to her," Booth moved Lance to face Brennan. "Say you're sorry for avoiding her."

"He doesn't have to say that," Brennan argued. "You're not his father, Booth – you don't get to push him around like you push Parker around."

Lance turned in horror to look at Booth. No one had ever said a critical word about Booth's son, and Lance dreaded to see how Booth would respond.

The man narrowed his eyes. "I do not push Parker around."

"You bully him," Brennan threw at him. "The poor kid is scared to death of you."

"A boy's supposed to be a little scared of his father."

"He's terrified of you."

Lance had seen Parker before, and he didn't think the kid was that scared of his father. Booth was big and looming, and Lance was sure that he seemed huge to the small boy, but he had never seen Parker cower in fear in front of his dad. However, Booth took the bait and retorted,

"You're just jealous because you're too much a cold-hearted bitch to ever nurture a child."

Hurt flashed over Brennan's face, and Lance jumped to her rescue. He thrust out his fist at Booth, meaning to punch the man in the face, but Booth easily deflected the blow, putting up an arm to block the punch.

At the sudden block, Lance stumbled back, his left arm flailing and hitting Brennan in the mouth. The accidental strike didn't hurt Brennan too bad, but the surprise of it caused her to trip over her own high heels, and she tumbled to the ground, knocking her arm on the coffee table as she fell.

"Ow," she grabbed her arm and used the hand of her hurt arm to rub her mouth.

Lance stood in horror at what he had done, but before he could apologize or help Brennan up, Booth grabbed him and manhandled him over the desk, bending Lance down and holding him there with one powerful hand while the other hand started swinging away at his bottom.

"No, Booth," Lance tried to twist away. "It was an accident."

"Like hell," Booth growled, spanking harder and harder. "That's no way to treat a lady. I'm not letting up until you're ready to apologize."

"Booth," Brennan got to her feet, "it really was an accident. He didn't mean to, and we shouldn't have been saying such mean things to each other."

"He's going to apologize," Booth smacked hard, and Brennan winced at the loud sound.

"I'll apologize!" Lance wailed. Thank God the rooms were sound-proof! The humiliation if anyone else heard what was happening to him.

"Go right ahead," Booth ordered, still spanking him.

"You aren't going to stop?" Lance asked between whacks.

"I think you deserve this for trying to punch me and then assaulting her."

"You're assaulting me!"

"No, I'm giving you the spanking you've been asking for. You've avoided us since last week, and Brennan thought you were hiding from her when she came up yesterday, and if you're going to act like a child, you're going to get treated like one."

"You treat Parker like this?" Lance felt tears fill his eyes. Booth sure could give a memorable spanking. The man had a hand like iron and enough strength to wallop pretty hard.

"How I raise Parker is no one's business but my own, and Parker shows people more respect than you do."

Lance writhed against the table. He didn't understand how they had gotten to this place. Friday night Booth had been reluctant to paddle him, and now Booth thought it was his right. So unfair.

"That's enough," Brennan intervened.

Snarling something under his breath, Booth pulled Lance up to face Brennan. "Say you're sorry."

"I'm – I'm sorry," Lance gulped, tears spilling down his cheeks.

"Don't ever hurt her again," Booth warned. "Or I swear I'll take my belt to you until you can't sit for a week."

Lance nodded, but he felt more tears gathering up and falling down. He felt raw inside, and he wanted to find some place to curl up and hide.

Brennan crossed her arms at her partner. "That was too harsh! You didn't hug him the other night, but you're going to now. Do it, Booth, or I'm taking _my_ belt to you."

Booth scoffed at her threat, but he took Lance by the shoulder and put one-arm around him, a half-hug.

"A real hug," Brennan insisted.

Rolling his eyes, Booth pulled Lance in for full embrace and was promptly shocked with the younger man hugged him back with both arms and buried his face in Booth's shoulder, still sobbing.

"Hey, hey," Booth lowered his voice, no longer stern. "No need for all this. I over-reacted a little, but it's Brennan, you know and –"

Lance didn't make a reply as he kept crying into that strong, rock-like shoulder. Lance had never expected to get a hug from Booth – the agent didn't exactly look like the hugging type, but the hug was everything Lance thought it would be: strong, reassuring, comforting, and leaving him in no confusion as to who was in charge.

When Booth finally pulled back, Lance straightened, but he found himself turned into Brennan's arms, pulled into a female embrace. Brennan wasn't as tall as Booth, and Lance found he could lay his head fully on her shoulder. For a woman who seemed so cold and reserved, Brennan was good at hugging, even stroking her hand over Lance's wavy dark hair while keeping him close.

When she released him, Lance collapsed back on the sofa, exhausted and emotionally worn-out.

"All right," Booth stepped in front of him, tall and looming, "we got some new rules here. You don't avoid us anymore and you tell us when you're worried about something. In return, Brennan and I will try not to fight in front of you. You're our therapist, but we'll respect each other during our sessions. Sound fair?"

Lance nodded, unsure what else he could do. He felt his heart breaking for the two people in front of them, and he didn't understand why he felt so strongly about them. He cared about all his patients, but Booth and Brennan were different, different in an awful, horrible, wonderful way that he wanted to spend time with them and seek their approval and have them assure him that they were his friends.

In the last five days, he had never felt so lonely and upset, mad at them for punishing him, but desperate to gain their approval back. He was beginning to understand that he could never be an equal – well, at least not Booth's equal. Booth had a way of talking and acting that let everyone know he was in charge, very much the alpha male. Booth respected other people's opinions, but Lance knew at the end of the day Booth made decisions and his team followed his orders.

He might have a shot at being Brennan's equal, but she was older. Both of them were older, and he wondered if he was doomed to be the little brother figure to both of them forever.

"We still value your opinion," Brennan assured him as she stood beside Booth. "We're still under your supervision here, but outside we're going to look after you a little better. There's no reason you can't spend a little more time with us, maybe even ride along with us on some cases."

"What?" Booth glanced at her.

"A few safe cases," she assured him. "And he's not getting a gun until I get one."

"So never," Booth quipped. "Well, we got about half an hour of time left, so what do you say we go get some coffee at the corner store?"

"Coffee would be nice," Brennan agreed.

"I could drink some coffee," Lance said.

"How 'bout some milk for you?" Booth smirked. "You're still growing."

"Stop teasing the boy," Brennan playfully smacked Booth on the arm. "He can have coffee."

"Nah, we left the sippy cup in the car," Booth grinned. "And what are we going to do about a bib so he doesn't drool everywhere?"

"Shut up," Lance smiled as he got to his feet. "I bet I can handle coffee better than you. You better have decaf, or you won't be able to go to sleep in six hours, old man."

"Smart ass," Booth laughed as they all headed out the door.

Lance deliberately positioned himself a little closer to Booth than necessarily and he felt warm and comforted inside when Booth gave his shoulder a friendly pat. Brennan reached over to grab his fingers and squeezed them warmly.

"Any chance we can do something this weekend?" Lance asked as they stepped into the elevator.

"Probably," Booth nodded. "I wouldn't mind seeing more of that Lord of the Rings stuff. We could have dinner at my place Friday or Saturday."

"That would be nice," Breanna said.

Lance tried to not grin too much. He glanced at the hallway, and then the elevator doors shut, enclosing him with his two friends.

"Though the monsters might scare one of us," Booth couldn't resist teasing a little more. "We'll tell you when to cover your eyes."

"Keep it up, old man," Lance said. "I'll tell your boss you're getting too farsighted and forgetful to do your job."

Lance saw the swat coming, and he skirted out of the way to avoid it, grinning cheekily at the indulgent look on Booth's face. Brennan smiled and pushed the ground floor button.

The End


End file.
